


Bicycle Thief

by smudgedisco



Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Drug Use, Explicit Language, Fluff and Angst, Foreign Exchange Student, Internal Conflict, M/M, Party, Sexual Content, Slow Burn, Wealthy Dream, george hates dream, study abroad
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-09
Updated: 2021-02-26
Packaged: 2021-03-12 23:40:36
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,323
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28643850
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smudgedisco/pseuds/smudgedisco
Summary: George's roommates never give him rides, so he's stuck with his rusty bike and a prayer that it won't rain.So what happens when a missing bike and abandoned friends force him to stay at a party hosted by the one person he doesn't like?-This fic is inspired by a few scenes from the Norwegian tv show Skam, which I highly recommend!
Relationships: Clay | Dream & GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF), Clay | Dream/GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF)
Comments: 51
Kudos: 152





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hi there! Just want to get it out there that I've never really written anything before but this is a storyline that I have yet to see so I decided to just write it myself. It's based entirely on internet personas and if any party becomes uncomfortable this will be taken down. 
> 
> I'm not really expecting many people to read this as it is more so self-indulgent but comments, critiques, etc are always welcome!
> 
> okay okay that's it, if u are reading this I love u.
> 
> teehee.

After minutes of adjusting the key so that it fits into the lock, George twists until he feels a _Click_ , jostling his bike to double-check that it’s secure. He stands up and adjusts the strap of his crossbody bag, lifting it over his head and switching sides. Knowing the weight would bear down on him no matter what, he rifles through his things to find a way to lighten the load.

Keys, _definitely keep_. Lighter, _always_. Laptop, pocket knife, sweater?

His eyes sift through the things in his bottomless Mary Poppin’s-esque bag until he glances at the bright morning sky, making the executive decision to leave his sweater behind—although his lifetime of London weather would tell his gut otherwise.

As he stands up from the pavement that his bike leans on, a piece of gum makes its way into the ridges of his shoes and George makes a mental note that the States are officially shit.

Six days into this semester abroad program and none of his roommates have even once offered him a ride to school—leaving him with this rusty bike, and as a result, a slight annoyance that trembles when he speaks.

He decides to blame the otherworldly blue of the gum that now decorates his feet on America too.

George misses the predictability of his London flat, the tube schedule, and the weather. It seems to him that everyone here is always rushing to go somewhere or do something, always pushing and never looking back. George, however, likes to reminisce, likes to stay curled inside for hours and enjoys listening to the slow of the world from time to time.

This is why the United States was not first on his list when he filled out his study abroad application, as good as their computer programming courses may have been.

With a huff, George leaves his sweater in the makeshift basket he had attached to the end of his bike with a few zip ties and turns on his heel towards the main building, skipping through Spotify until he lands on a Gorillaz song that he knows can push him through this part of campus. He allows the melody to take him across the large field littered with small picnic gatherings and frisbee games, matching his left foot with the snare and his right foot with the base. As 2-D begins to infiltrate his mind, the world around him shifts from a shitty college campus to a plastic beach. The blues overtake him as the melody flows through his psyche, pulling at old memories that bubble up to the surface before bursting.

_Oh joy’s arise, the sun has come to hold you_

His father unbuckles George’s seatbelt in the front of their pickup truck before pulling him up into his lap. George reaches up to the scruff that enshrouds the bottom half of his father’s face before turning to face the rain smacking against the windshield as the vehicle speeds through sleet. He could feel a giggle rising in his throat as his father sings along to the repeating song stuck in their cassette player.

_And if the whole world is crashing down_

Individual lives flee by as he and his father soar through the falling sky, alone together.

This feeling—what is it again? Sonder, his father says. _This is sonder._

George continues to wade through his personal plastic beach, eyeing the murky waters and preparing to dive into the deep end when he gets cut short by the sudden absence of one of his earbuds and an overwhelming rush of the outside world audibly returning.

“Empire Ants? Good fucking choice man. That tempo change in the middle of the song gets me good. I fuck with your taste, Britain.”

“Big Q,” George coughs out, completely caught off guard. “You scared the shit out of me—and you stole my right earbud.”

George rips the earbud back out of his roommate’s ear, cleaning it with the underneath of his shirt before placing it back in his own.

He suddenly becomes aware of his surroundings, grasping at the fact that he is no longer in his own little Gorillaz world but in the middle of a stranger’s frisbee game, which he only understands based on the angry eyes that are drilling into the back of his head.

“Didn’t know frisbee could get this intense,” He plays off, scratching the back of his neck as he pulls Alex out of the vicinity.

“You know, you really shouldn’t be this short with me, Britain. I’m like, your main man, and without me you wouldn’t even know what side of the road to drive on or whatever,” Q responds, clearly returning to the original conversation at hand as he adjusts a slightly wrinkled Hawaiian shirt and looks at George in the eye with a smirk.

“Big Q,” George starts, slightly annoyed, “I would only need to know which side of the road to drive on if I had a car, which I don’t, ‘cause you jackasses don’t offer me rides.”

“Jesus, what side of the bed did y—”

“Also it’s George, not Britain or London or whatever.”

Alex looks at him quizically, then bursts out into laughter. “God, I’m sorry man I know you’re trying to be real with me right now but I just can’t take your accent seriously… _it’s Geodge, noht Britahn o’ London,_ ” he imitates, barking into the sky.

George feels a smile playing at his lips, annoyed at Big Q’s ability to easily make him laugh. He plays it off by doing a slight 180-degree surveillance of the otherwise calm campus, then with a newfound pokerface he focuses his attention back on Alex, who’s wiping tears at his own joke.

“Anyways…” George states dryly, slowly walking towards the direction of his lecture.

“No please don’t go,” Alex pleads, pulling a stumbling George back by the arm.

“Big Q I literally did not come all the way to this stupid country for a semester just to skip my programming lecture for a fucking delinquent who interrupts my music flow—I need to get to class” George retorts after checking the time on his phone.

“Not just one delinquent,” Alex wiggles his eyebrows, “but three…” he says suggestively, pointing in the direction of an oak tree with two figures waving underneath it.

George groans. “I don’t understand how none of you fuckers can give me a ride in the morning, and yet here you are, begging for my presence right when I need to be somewhere.”

Alex looks at him with pleading eyes.

Facing away, George thinks. He could go to his lecture, where he would zone out until he’s used his pen to dig a hole in his desk deep enough to jump in and never reappear. Or, he could join Alex and hopefully redeem his shitty day. George has spent a lot of his life making decisions based on the amount of guaranteed success that could come out of it. And yet somehow, he’s an ocean away from the safe route. Why not push it further?

_Fuck it._

He opts for the latter and follows Big Q, pulling the looping Gorillaz song out of his ears on the way.

Alex has already made himself comfortable again, leaning against the base of the tree and hooking his phone up to the bluetooth speaker that sits like a trophy in the middle of the circle.

Nadia briefly greets him as he sits down before immediately turning back to an ongoing conversation with Karl.

George drops his bag and plops onto the grass before checking the time again and zoning out into an abyss of American accents and personal reflection.

George first met Nadia in the kitchen of their shared apartment. As he was hauling a second suitcase into the hallway, she said something about avoiding the bottom cabinet in the communal bathroom and after taking a look, George decided he owed her his life. He settled for a shelf on the top, away from the mold-infested 5 in 1 body wash that rested in said cabinet, and made a mental note to honorarily write Nadia into his will.

He continues this reminiscing train of thought, only half-listening to the conversation at hand.

“And then he like, pinned me down and actually fucked my brains out, it was fucking incredible—”

Suddenly George is pulled out of his zone of unconsciousness and looks around, bewildered. “I’m sorry I think I missed something, what the fuck are we talking about?” He exclaims, looking at Nadia.

“She finally hooked up with Dream,” Karl responds, this clearly not being the first time he’s heard this story as he barely looks up from the strand of grass he’s carefully splitting into two.

“...Who?” George asks.

“George we’ve been over this,” Nadia says, lowering her voice. “He’s been my crush since like, forever. And Karl, we didn’t hook up, _we made love_.”

Alex rolls his eyes. “Everyone on campus is in love with him, George. Oh, and speak of the motherfucker and there he is, he is literally like a rabbit being pulled out of a hat... or something.”

George shakes his head at the bad joke as he looks up from his own blade of grass and over at a hallway that springs from the path that wraps around campus. A tall figure weaves his way through a slow-moving crowd of people before making long strides towards the student parking lot, a shorter figure not too far behind him. He's wearing a long coat and before George can comment on the ostentatious aura that radiates off of him, he notices this person pull out keys to a Porsche that blinks its headlights. _Trust fund baby. Of course._

“Isn’t he hot? I'm gonna say hi,” Nadia gushes, undoing a row of buttons on her sweater to reveal more of her skin as she shouts to him, waving excitedly.

“Dream!”

The figure barely looks up to acknowledge her, slightly nodding towards the group’s direction before turning back.

 _Pretentious fuck_ , George thinks, tracing the remaining movements of the other party as the two get in the flashy car before he returns his attention back to the group.

“That was kinda rude,” says Alex, “I thought you guys were in lov-”

Karl jabs him in the side before he could finish his sentence.

“Huh,” Nadia states with a little less enthusiasm, buttoning her shirt back up when the wind picks up. “He’s probably just having a rough morning, you know how it is sometimes.”

“Right…” sides Karl, looking at George for help.

“Yeah hey that’s great, so Big Q do you have any solid music recommendations?” George attempts, trying to switch the conversation as it’s swaying dangerously near the edge of confrontation with someone he’s only known for six days.

As Alex begins a personal review of In Rainbows by Radiohead, George notices Karl falling back into the grass, closing his eyes, evidently grateful to avoid the topic at hand. In the short amount of time George has known him, Karl has been a pocket of warmth—a peacemaker if you will.

Karl was the one who reached out to George after noticing his desperate attempts to find a stable place to stay during his time away from London. The whole semester abroad thing was a last-minute decision and by the time he had signed up, dorms were full and George was ready to sleep in the lecture hall. His saving grace was a direct message describing the group’s need for a fourth roommate when their rent went up.

Karl is also the one with the car.

George lays next to him, sprawling out into the sun as his goosebumps slowly dissipate. The track drifting from the bluetooth speaker melts into the sky and Alex’s rant becomes hazy as he centers his focus on Nadia, who seems to be distant from this conversation, occasionally checking her phone for notifications—movements only George picks up on.

When the sun gets smothered by thick clouds—a sudden change from the warmth that was radiating down a second ago—George wishes he hadn’t left his sweater with his bike.

 _Fuck American weather_ , he says to himself and closes his eyes.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm back! u guys have been really sweet i hope u enjoy this one :)

It’s in those first seven seconds when George wakes up and has no idea who he is, where his life is headed and what appropriate breakfast foods are in the refrigerator that he finds an ounce of peace. For each of those seconds lasts a lifetime of genesis, of rebirth, of forgetting the weight of his past on his present. 

Early in the morning, he is weightless. 

Then suddenly, those lifetimes disappear and he squeezes his eyes shut—hoping, wishing, pining for those seven seconds of peace to fill him back up and make him whole.

_Good morning, George._

_Good morning, George._

_Good morning, George._

George tugs on his comforter, pulling it up over his head before letting out an exasperated sigh. 

He forgot to turn off his alarm for the weekend. 

Reaching a hand out from under the stuffiness of his striped bedsheets, he pats around the table next to his bed until he finds his phone, grabbing it and pulling it back under the bundle of bedding. He quickly presses the snooze button and his lockscreen suddenly illuminates the cave he has made for himself. 

_8:47 A.M._

_Saturday, September 18_

George groans. 

_Goddammit._ Waking up anytime before 10 on a Saturday should be illegal. Surely his body is doing this to spite him for all of the times he abused his ability to sleep soundly through the night, back when he was slightly younger and entirely nocturnal. Back when sleep was an afterthought.

Reluctantly pulling the covers back down, George takes his first deep breath of the day, soaking up the sun that pours through his shuttered window. He examines his stucco ceiling, greeting the polar bear he found days ago amongst random bumps and shapes. 

As he rubs his eyes, George becomes aware of how naked his room is. The singular polar bear stuck in his ceiling is the only friendly character amongst the blank white facade. His suitcase is still spread open on the floor, socks and shirts spilling out from the sides. No posters decorate his walls, only a fortune from chinese takeout a few nights ago and a to-do list. His one pair of converse sneakers sit dormantly by his bed, and a singular Miles Davis CD that he found in a box outside of the apartment awaits to be played in a nonexistent CD player. 

If a burglar were to barge into the place, they would take one look at George’s room and completely avoid it.

 _Nothing in there,_ they would say. 

He laughs. Never before has he wanted a burglar to want his room.

Looking back up at the ceiling, he hunts for more shapes in the stucco. As hard as he looks, he cannot seem to find any suitable companions for his lone polar bear. All alone in the midst of abstraction, George sees the bear swimming through oblong shapes and figures plastered above him. 

_I’ll find you a friend, Mr. Polar Bear._

And with that, George groggily gets out of bed and stumbles to his suitcase for a fresh shirt. 

-

As he emerges from the depths of his empty room, George is hit by a faint rendition of Sublime’s Santeria being sung from underneath the steamy bathroom door as the smell of smoke wafts into his nose from down the hall—quite the sensory overload for his 9 o’ clock in the morning. 

He attempts to avoid the creaks in the apartment’s shitty hardwood floors before entering the kitchen, waving his hands to clear the hazy atmosphere and greet his roommate. 

“Karl why is it s—” George takes in his surroundings. “Holy shit.” 

As smoke pours out of a now open microwave, Karl nervously grins at George before looking back down at the pot he’s holding with the sleeves of his sweater. The microwave beeps continuously until George walks over to shut it, attempting to do some damage control before the upstairs neighbors hastily call the fire department. 

“You know, I don’t think metal goes in microwaves,” George acknowledges whilst silently reflecting on his mental list of near death experiences and adding apartment fire to the lineup. 

Karl drops the steaming pot in the sink. “Oh really? Huh. That’s so crazy. Thank you for the observation Mr. Genius. Would you like your Nobel Peace Prize now or later?” 

“I’ll take it now please, with a side of whatever’s in that pot,” George bats his eyes at the sarcasm. “I didn’t know we had an arsonist on our hands.”

Karl scowls. “Good morning, George.”

George grabs an apple from a bowl on the counter before seating himself on a stool, spinning slightly. “Karl, my polar bear needs a companion,” he says matter of factly before taking a bite. 

“Your polar bear?”

“Yes my—” George pauses. “My ceiling friend.”

“George, what the hell are you on?” Karl laughs. 

“Karl.” George stares at him with sleep deprived determination. “ My dumb walls are empty and I’ve decided I need to do something about it.”

Karl glances at George before turning back to the running water to scrub his disaster of a breakfast. “Right… I’m sorry but what does that have to do with the polar bear?”

George yawns. The early morning has graced him with the inevitable inability to form coherent sentences, and he retracts his point to take another bite of his apple as a damp figure emerges from his peripheral.

“Hey fellas—” Alex greets the kitchen antics, drying his hair with a towel before looking around. “There’s something off about the atmosphere in this room, but I can’t quite put my finger on it.”

“Oh yeah,” George smirks. “Hey Karl, is that something you want to _clear_ the _air_ about?”

Karl lets out a sigh, pausing his dishwashing to look in their direction. “I hate you guys.”

George turns his attention to Alex. “Big Q, my walls are so empty that I’m hallucinating animals and stuff. Will you guys please go to Goodwill with me today?”

He eyes Alex in anticipation as his roommate waves his hands to clear the remaining smoke and open the cupboards in search of something to eat, before scowling at the noticeable absence of any clean dishes. “Sorry man, me and Karl were gonna go to the game today.” Alex reaches for a cereal box above the fridge. “You can join us though if you’d like, I’m sure the sexy hockey men will take your mind away from your arctic hallucinations.”

George chuckles, shaking his head. “Just because I’m gay doesn’t mean I like every man ever, Alex. I’m gonna go ask Nadia if she can come with me.” 

He hops off his stool and heads for the door as Karl’s laughter trails behind him.

“Yeah but in theory you’d like me, right George?” Alex calls out after him. “I’m definitely hot enough.” 

“You wish!” George yells as he heads down the hallway, turning back around to flip him off with a smile. 

-

The dark hall muffles the music Alex had just begun to play back in the kitchen and George traces his hand along the textured walls before coming to a halt at Nadia’s door frame. He reaches his hand up slowly, lightly knocking as to not disturb her if she’s still asleep. After receiving a mumble in response, George cracks open the door and pokes his head inside. 

“Can I come in?”

Nadia nods, tugging a pair of headphones out of her ears as George pads across the carpet and sits on the floor across from her bed. 

In their tiny three bedroom apartment, Nadia is the other roommate lucky enough to get a room to herself. Amidst the absurd room arrangement discourse that had occurred at the beginning of the semester, the other two decided that George would get the remaining single room based on his accent. “ _I just can’t imagine myself waking up to that everyday, man. It would give me a headache,”_ they would say. 

George did not complain when they gifted him his blank canvas of a living space, and is especially grateful now after learning that Alex and Karl rise at ungodly hours if they even sleep at all. He never questions the empty Monster cans that overflow the recycling receptacle or the four in the morning announcements that they have arrived home, he’s just glad that he’s not directly affected.

 _Home._ He hadn’t thought of it like that before. That’s not so bad. 

“So… you’ve met our fire hazard then?” Nadia asks, grabbing a can of febreze by her side to smother any trace of a smoky scent.

George laughs. “Judging by the mass amount of air freshener and first aid supplies by your side, I’m gonna assume this wasn’t the first time Karl has charred the kitchen.” 

Nadia chuckles before the two ease into a comfortable early morning silence that George didn’t know he needed as he picks up a few stray polaroids by his feet. 

“Who’s this?” George points to a face in the shiny plastic.

Nadia crawls off her bed to take a look at the photo of her next to a shorter redhead in a party-like setting. The two are bent over laughing.

“Oh, I didn’t realize I left those out. That’s Jo,” Nadia says, pausing. “One of my best friends.”

As George looks up at her, he notices a flash of hurt behind her eyes before they glaze back into their natural, protective state. He doesn’t recall a mention of best friends before, and by observing the strain in her smile he’s pretty sure there’s a reason for that. But he doesn’t push the question. He carefully places the polaroid back down and continues to move his gaze around her room, taking in minor subtleties. 

“Hey I recognize that jumper from somewhere,” George says, suddenly pointing to a black hoodie with a smiley face painted on the front that is sprawled out by her closet.

Nadia’s face brightens. “Dream gave it to me!”

“Oh nice!” George musters as his mind returns to their icy interaction from a few days prior, recalling the offended look on the stranger’s face when Nadia called out to him—as if he was a God and she was so very small. As if intimacy was a trivial matter. Curious, he asks—

“How is that going, by the way?”

_A pause._

“It’s ok, I think. He hasn’t really texted, since like, I last hung out with him and stuff.”

 _Asshole._ George searches her face for some sort of sign, not knowing what to say next without pushing his own opinions onto her—not knowing what to do when he despises the demeanor of the subject at hand.

As the air stiffens from both the remaining microwaved smoke and growing tension, Nadia forces a smile. “But it’s fine, he’s like, super busy right now I think, and he’s totally not obligated to respond or anything.”

George reluctantly hums and the two fall back into silence. He pulls out his phone and refreshes his instagram feed, scrolling through miscellaneous posts of his old friends in London and few new acquaintances he’s met recently. The few American parties he’s attended have never really left room for casual conversation; overpowered by pumping bass and a smoky haze that prevents him from mingling—although he was never very good at mingling in the first place. Discounting a few drunken snapchat additions and random hookups, George’s list of friends in the western hemisphere doesn’t expand much further than his roommates.

“George, was there a reason you came in or was it just to hang out?”

“Oh!” He snaps out of his haze, refocusing on his phone again. “I like, woke up this morning and realized how boring my room was, so I was wondering if you would come with me to get some stuff—” George stops his sentence, his thumb hovering over a post. Studying his screen, he makes out a few recognizable faces pictured at a party from the night prior, one being the redhead from the polaroid.

“Hey, isn’t that your friend?” George asks, taking a look again. Holding the photographed girl by the waist is a tall figure, and as George looks closer he regrets letting that question fall so easily from his mouth. 

_Dream._

It clicks. The polaroid strewn on the floor, the strain in her eyes. George looks up at Nadia just in time to see her plaster a bright smile over her fallen face. 

“Oh yeah! Yeah, she was at the party last night.”

“So you’ve seen this… wait but isn’t that Dream? With her?” George treads lightly. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, yeah. It’s no big deal, I mean it was a party, that stuff happens all the time.”

George looks at her for some sign of vulnerability—a sign that she’ll let her guard down. He finds none. He can see her hurt, it cuts deep. She has an unwillingness to let go of her idea of this person—a degree of _stubbornness,_ if you will. But as much as her naivety irks George, he is more angry at the person who has Nadia leaping in bounds, head over heels, for someone who only sees her as a bucket list item. He hates people like Dream. Hates them because they can get what they please, do what they want, and repel repercussions. 

Suddenly, George sits up. He remembers the context in which he’s seen that god awful smiley faced jumper before. 

_How could he be so stupid? It’s everywhere._

“I need to show you something,” George stands up, his mind racing. “Would you mind going for a short walk?”

Nadia nods, confused.

George leaves to grab his jacket before turning back to see her slipping on her shoes. “Oh, and bring Dream’s jumper.”

-

As the two walk towards campus, George keeps an eye out for what he’s looking for. The coat he had shoved on before leaving does nothing to keep him warm as all of his body heat escapes through the holes in his shitty chuck all-stars. He silently curses the weather as his teeth begin to vibrate. They move through small crowds of students drifting around campus, the buzz of light banter interrupting his and Nadia’s comfortable silence. Turning around a bend, George leads them to a halt at the edge of the lawn that is sprawled out across the landscape in front of them.

“George it’s cold as balls out what are we d—”

“There!” George interrupts Nadia as he sees what they came for, pointing towards a group of people sitting beneath a large tree. Focusing his and Nadia’s attention on the group, he hones in on the attire of a student talking animatedly to her friends. She’s wearing a hoodie similar to the one that Nadia is clutching, smiley face proudly on display for the world to see. 

“It’s the same jumper,” George says. He glances at Nadia for a signal that he’s going in the right direction with this. She looks back at him, unimpressed. 

“Okay, now look over there.” George points to a blonde girl on the other side of campus bent over to lock her bike, and as she stands up the smiley face on her chest becomes visible. He scans the landscape in front of them. “And those two girls are wearing it too,” He says, pointing to a pair walking by. 

George turns back to his roommate. “Nadia, they all have Dream’s jumper. He gave it to you after you hooked up, right?”

She nods.

“He probably gave it to them too. I think he’s using that dumb smiley symbol to check off his fuck list. A souvenir of his sexual endeavours.”

Nadia looks down at the sweatshirt she’s holding tightly. “So—it’s like a gold star for fucking him?”

“Yeah,” George responds softly as he sees her face fall. “I don't think he sees you the same way you see him.”

He knows the expression on Nadia’s face. Regret and hurt—the genesis of self destruction. The reciprocation of love is scarily delicate just as it's the world’s biggest weapon. When unrequited, it can be too much all at once—George knows this. 

George stopped falling in love long ago. That head pounding, heat rising, shaky kind of infatuation was the one thing he never held in his own hands. His younger self let his butterflies roam freely. His heart always belonged to someone else—an intangible fragility that, when shattered, tore George apart. It became hard to pick up the pieces of his own reflection without getting cut. As he sewed himself back together for the last time, he cross stitched his heart and shoved it down, away from the prying hands of others. 

Nadia leans into George’s side and he wraps his arms around her in a warm embrace, resting his chin on top of her head. He knows that her world is spinning too fast for comfort, too much to take all at once. “I think I already knew… I just didn’t want to,” She muffles into his chest, taking a shuttered breath. “Is there something wrong with me?” 

George pulls away, gripping at her shoulders as he looks in her eyes. “Definitely not,” He whispers. “American men suck. Especially the tall ones with Porsches and a superiority complex that’s a thousand times too big for their flaccid micro penises.”

A smirk tugs at Nadia’s lips before she looks down at the hoodie once again. George knows that the best thing for now is a distraction. 

“Come on,” George tugs on her arm and the two start back towards the direction of their apartment, hand in hand. "We have a ceiling polar bear to attend to."

  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank u for reading! i'd totally appreciate feedback, suggestions and whateva
> 
> idk if anyone would want song recs but here's a few that remind me of this chapter!
> 
> miles davis - bye bye blackbird  
> sublime - santeria  
> mac miller - circles  
> blondie - heart of glass  
> crosby, stills & nash - helplessly hoping
> 
> i love u!
> 
> teehee


	3. Chapter 3

Twenty three. There are twenty three plastic stars that softly illuminate George’s room, pasted onto his ceiling with clear scotch tape in hopes that his polar bear will find a friend. When he and Nadia came back from their shopping excursion with the glow in the dark decorations in hand, they were just an impulse purchase to accompany a desk lamp and a Legally Blonde poster. But now, as the stars enshroud George’s room in a comfortable green luminosity, the four roommates are piled on top of each other—staring up at the ceiling. 

“Stars make you feel like, so small—you know?” Karl cranes his neck over the edge of George’s bed, analyzing the artificial sky above him. George, Nadia, and Karl have their backs against the mattress, engrossed in the ceiling with their shoulders pressed up against one another. George’s eyes are darting from star to star—creating a blur of light that moves as fast as his own thoughts. “There’s a word for that,” George says. “Feeling small, I mean.”

He looks up at Alex, who is faintly playing guitar in an upright position by the headboard, joint resting loosely between his lips as exhaled smoke fills the air. 

“Sonder.”

Karl pulls his eyes away from the stars to look at George through the darkness. “It’s the realization that each and every life has depth and complexity. Every star has its own detonation—centuries of birth and death that are constant even when we are unaware.” George sits up to steal the joint from Alex’s lips and put it between his own, taking a pull and allowing that ache of sonder to fill his lungs. 

To George, there’s a difference between being lonely and being alone. To be lonely is to grasp at threads of conversation but never catch hold, to never be on the receiving end of phone calls, to reminisce more than reconcile. It is an acute awareness of the fact that others are living their lives when one feels that they are barely living theirs. George hates being lonely, but he likes being alone. Being alone is a choice to live amongst the thousands of stars that adorn the sky—a choice to appreciate sonder not for its prompting of loneliness but for its celebration of smallness. 

George, Nadia, Alex and Karl are alone, together. As the sound of cars passing distantly drifts through his open window, the four sink back into a quiet appreciation for the twenty three plastic stars that prompted their late night entanglement. 

“If aliens were to come to earth, right,” Alex starts, exhaling a trail of smoke from his last hit. “And they were holding you hostage—” 

There’s a beat of silence before Karl lets out a suppressed laugh. “Big Q—”

“No, no, hear me out, okay,” Alex puts his guitar down and lies next to the others, facing the ceiling with the joint still in hand. “So you’re being held hostage, and these aliens are threatening to end your life and seal the doomed fate of the world. But, you can be saved if you show them a good reason to spare the humans. Obviously you would show them a song to prove that humans are capable of good things, so my question is—what song would you choose to save the human race?” 

George’s gaze bounces from star to star, attempting to picture the proposed scenario as his drug induced haze separates his thoughts from the world around him, like he’s observing himself from afar. 

“I mean, I’m with the aliens,” Karl says. “Humans kinda suck, I don’t blame them for wanting to take us out.”

“Aw come on man, humor me.” 

Alex picks his guitar back up and Nadia reaches over to pluck a few strings, a break in the stillness she had been lost in. “I would probably choose that one Alicia Keys song about New York,” she says. “Makes me feel like my life could have some sort of impact on some concrete metropolis somewhere. Maybe it’ll make the aliens want to go to New York too.”

“Nadia, if we were a concrete metropolis, you’d have the biggest impact,” Karl responds without a trace of ingenuity. 

“Karl what the fuck does that even mean?” George laughs. 

“Well  _ George _ , what song would you choose?”

Looking back at the ceiling, George considers every song that’s ever had an audible impact on his life, shuffling through boxes of CD’s and cassettes in his mind. He races through genres, moments, and ideas—searching for just one song. But just one song is hard, because he knows that every song has a link to its successors in a series of events. 

There are the songs that his dad played as they flew past the speed limit on highways, each laced with a reminiscing tone that George is often wishful for. There are the songs that he’s attached to his first times—his first kiss at a year 10 dance was backed by Flo Rida singing about apple bottom jeans. And then there are the songs that pull him in, the ones where George would do anything just to listen to for the first time again. 

But when considering aliens, there’s only one right answer. “Little Black Dress by One Direction.”

George waits as an insufferable silence follows his response.

“You’re kidding,” Alex looks him dead in the eyes. 

“What? It’s a good song, aliens would  _ love  _ me.”

Karl lets out a laugh. “I don’t even know if I’ve heard that song, they kinda all sound the same to me.”

_ “What?” _ George sits up in disbelief as the others hum in agreement. “You’re joking.” He pats around the dimly lit room through his syrupy haze, finding his way to the bluetooth speaker and plugging his phone in the side of the device. Navigating to spotify, he pulls the song up and its first chord shakes his paper thin walls. 

“George.” Alex whines. “Come on we were chilling, what the fuck is this?

“Come on, everybody up!” George orders as he hops back on his bed and bounces up and down, rocking the mattress so that Karl rolls off. He drags Nadia up, organizing themselves into a mock waltzing position as they begin to sway to the shitty pop anthem. He pulls Karl and Alex into their circle and their swaying turns into a rhythmic spinning around the room, a sudden shift in energy from the calm that surrounded them moments ago. The room fills with laughter directed at awkward dance moves and clumsy feet.

“See?” He says gleefully, pointing to the artificial galaxy above them. “The aliens love us!” 

George can see smiles playing on his roommates faces as they all cheer for the glowing stars. He’s grateful to be in this space with them, where his walls and ceiling are not as lonely as they once were. Where loud music fills his bedroom and he can jump around freely, giddy and out of breath, his high spinning him around and around. 

Just as the song arrives at its final chorus, he hears muffled laughter from beneath the apartment complex. Out of breath, he bounds over to the window and pokes his head out into the chilling darkness to observe what he assumes to be a cluster of piss drunk students walking past—an entertaining nightly occurrence. He looks down at the group from the third floor, watching them push each other around and shout incoherent nothings through a shade of yellow cast by lonely street lamps. It’s interesting, how everyone eventually finds their people. He wonders if the loud voices from below have found theirs. 

George feels himself being shoved slightly and Nadia appears next to him, popping her head out the window to look down. They share a giggle and George glances over at her, only to see her face fall as her eyes fixate on the street below them. He hears Nadia’s voice hitch. 

“That’s Dream.” 

Confused, George looks back down in the direction of the group and sure enough, Dream is in the middle of the crowd—leading an uproar of laughter.  _ Shit.  _ How did he manage to not notice the most unavoidable ego on campus? 

Suddenly, Nadia pulls herself back into the room and George can hear her open his bedroom door to leave. 

“Nadia?” George follows suit and retracts himself from the window, meeting the eyes of two other confused roommates who just witnessed her swift exit from their lounging positions on the bed. The One Direction anthem plays quietly on loop as George enters the hallway. “Nadia, what are you doing?” 

“I need to talk to him,” she muffles from inside of her own room. George puts his ear up to the door to hear her more clearly but is only met with wordless shuffling. The door is abruptly pulled back open, and the two meet face to face. George looks down to see shoes on her feet and the smiley sweatshirt in hand.

“What, like—now? Nadia I think you need to think about this,” George starts. “Karl, Alex, can you come help?” He yells into his room. He follows Nadia through the kitchen, throwing a coat over his body and grabbing his chucks as Nadia opens the front door. “Nadia, he's with all of his friends right now.”

“Dude, what is she doing?” Alex follows suit, throwing a hoodie on and grabbing their keys as Karl leaves in his slippers. 

“I don’t care,” they hear Nadia say from down the hall.

George pulls his shoes over his ankles and without bothering to tie them he drags his roommates out of their apartment and latches the door—starting for the emergency stairs. “She just saw Dream outside.”

“That motherfucker,” Alex lets out under his breath. The three make their way down the carpeted hallway of their complex and open the heavy doors to the stairs, clambering down after Nadia’s faint footsteps below.

“Nadia!” Karl’s shouts bounce off the walls of the stairway. “Wait up!” 

George catches the emergency exit door just before it latches after Nadia’s swift departure and he pulls it back open, embraced by an overwhelming rush of cold air. The night sky greets them, though it is not nearly as welcoming as his own artificial stars. The yellow glow from staggered street lamps light their path as the three roommates chase after Nadia, whose shadow is only quickening in pace. If this doesn’t sober George up, he doesn’t know what will. 

After dodging a few random strangers they catch up to their roommate just as she shouts after the group ahead of them. 

“Dream!”

A few people in the cluster of buzzed bodies glance behind at them and nudge Dream, who slows to halt, still facing ahead. 

“I need to talk to you.”

Dream slowly turns around to face them, the rest of his friends staggering back uninterestedly. George sucks in a breath.

He had yet to see him up close. He’s tall, George notes, as he pursues the lines of his broad shoulders. Dream lifts his hand up to push his hair out of his face, and George’s eyes trace over the variety of cuts and bruises that decorate his knuckles. The hand moves down to rub at an observable amount of stubble that adorns his chin as Dream lets out a sigh that visibly dissipates into the night. 

“Here.” Nadia shoves the sweatshirt into Dream’s hands and he takes it, stumbling back a bit. “I don’t want your fucking hoodie. I’m not gonna sit around wearing a gold star for fucking you like all of these other girls that are some part of your dumb sexual agenda.”

George cringes slightly at the urgency of her words in comparison to the bored look on Dream’s face. He can feel Alex and Karl awkwardly shift behind him. Cornered into the night with both parties miles away from being sober, George knows that this is not the right time. And yet here they are, standing against each other like the current between two opposing oceans—one a raging storm and the other adorning calm waters. 

There’s a pause. The night suddenly wraps a little tighter around George’s neck and he prepares to be fully engulfed if this duration in between exchanges grows any longer. 

Dream flicks his eyes down before looking back up at Nadia, and George swears he saw the slightest smirk. “I’m sorry, what was your name again?” 

You’re joking. Anger spikes the tip of George’s tongue and he bites down, drawing blood. This battle between oceans has no lighthouse, he decides. No beacon to guide the ark that is destined to crash. 

“Nadia,” her voice falters. 

“Okay, Nadia.” Dream steps forward, looking down at the sweatshirt she had just handed him. He holds it up in front of her face. 

“Thank you for returning this.” He smiles with disdain as he folds the sweater and tucks it under his arm. “I’m glad you’re aware that you are not nearly good enough for a gold star, or anything of sorts.” 

The copper taste of blood that had enriched George’s mouth sinks into his mind and if he could see all the colors he would be seeing red. He finds himself pulling Nadia behind him as he steps close enough to see Dream’s breath illuminate the air around the group.

“What a real fucking nice guy you are.” 

Dream’s gaze shifts from Nadia to George, and for the first time their eyes meet. 

“Do you go around, shitting on girls for fun?” George inquires, welcoming a harsh rasp that escapes from his throat. “Mommy told you to get a hobby and this is the best you could come up with?”

He observes that tinge of a smirk playing on Dream’s lips, as if he’s relishing in this challenge. The syrupy slowness that had melted George’s thoughts earlier in the evening has mutated into a tangible rage that he spits out—angry at Dream’s amusement. “You’re fucking  _ pathetic _ .” His words drip with animosity. “I suggest you at least  _ pretend  _ not to be the asshole that you are, because no one finds it funny. Get over yourself.”

George stares straight down the barrel of the gun, through the dark glare that accompanies Dream’s maniacal hint of a smile. He can tell he’s enjoying the public scrutiny, the eyes on him, the defiance of his common practice. He won’t feed into it any longer. 

He turns back to his roommates as the night envelops him in a different kind of darkness. 

He hopes Dream can feel what loneliness means.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and here we are! once again, feedback is always welcome :]
> 
> songs!  
> chicano batman - cycles of existential rhyme  
> jay-z - empire state of mind  
> one direction - little black dress  
> frank ocean - super rich kids
> 
> much love
> 
> teehee


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi hello i am so sorry for the late update!! much luv

George wakes up Monday morning with a headache. Not the throbbing, inescapable kind, but the lingering amount of hurt that will leave him with a residual lethargy that carries throughout his day. He sits up, leaning over his legs in a half assed stretch before slumping back down. In the shade of his shuttered room, his stars glow a soft green but he soon notices they are overpowered by another, brighter glow. His computer. 

_ His computer.  _

_ Oh shit.  _

His slumped posture suddenly straightens as he focuses on the stark white untitled document that is sprawled out on his computer.  _ Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit, shit.  _

He can feel his face involuntarily heat up as dread seeps into his system. He knows his evolutionary computation thesis is due, and all that stares back at him is a blinking cursor. George tears his comforter off his bed and scrambles to his desk, leaning closer to the blinding laptop screen as if there is a chance he accidentally wrote his thesis in a very, very small font. 

Nope. No hard to read text. No receipts in his document history. The page is empty. 

George rests his head on the keyboard.  _ Fhfuhogiihiug,  _ it types. 

He must have fallen asleep last night. His eyes shift to the top of his screen.  _ Mon 9:21 AM _ . He’s late. He has never in his life been this utterly fucked. With no paper in hand, George grabs the nearest sweater by his feet and throws it on, closing his laptop and shoving it into his bag. He heaves open his door and rushes down the cramped hallway and into the kitchen.

“Guys? Karl?” He calls out. “I’m so fucking late, can I get a ride?” 

The only response George receives is the low hum of their refrigerator. Of course they left. “I fucking hate all of you.” George grumbles into the vacancy of the room. 

He grabs an apple and sticks it between his teeth in a hastiness to slip his shoes on, hopping around slightly before tugging them over his heels. His overflowing bag slips slightly off his shoulder as he locks the door behind him and makes his way to the stairs. George quickly rescues his bike from its dormancy on the first floor of their apartment building and pushes it out of the entrance and into the bitter morning. 

Grocery storefronts and park benches fly behind him, a sour wind biting his cheeks in a race to beat the clock. The alarming absence of a completed thesis and his apparent tardiness prevents George from enjoying the early morning buzz of strangers as he tears down the paved path towards campus. 

He used to enjoy the ride to class. Every morning he would pass the same group of little old ladies in brightly colored outfits and smile to himself. It was nice to observe routine. Maybe one day he could join them in a brightly colored outfit of his own and talk about sudoku and the news. But today's morning gave no time for word puzzles and little old ladies, which he is clearly made aware of by the influx of students exiting his building. Shit. He completely missed his lecture.

He reaches for his phone to check the time, extracting it from his back pocket and bringing it to his face. As he swipes up, the device fumbles out of his hands.

No fucking chance this is actually happening to him. Not today. 

He hears a shatter.

George is not a strong believer in signs. He’s not superstitious—he’s unafraid to walk underneath ladders and black cats are only friendly creatures. He forgets to say  _ bless you  _ when he witnesses a sneeze, for in his eyes the expression provides no divine safeguard against wayward souls. But holy fuck, does he believe that every God is brutally tearing him apart right now. 

He slows his bike to a halt and the group of strangers around him scatter, looking over their shoulders with slight concern. George gives them a terse smile before swinging his leg over the seat and retreating to the location where his phone stagnantly sits on the path, waiting to be examined. It has a freshly spun spider web of cracks adorning the screen and George curses to himself. Today’s odds are stacked against him. He has no completed paper in hand. At this point, he’s already missed his lecture. And now his phone is dressed in a sharp lace that he traces his finger over, inhaling pointedly as it draws blood.

_ Okay _ , George thinks—as if all of the forces against him can hear his thoughts loud and clear.  _ You win.  _

He holds the power button down on his device and the screen glows a bright white—a glimmer of hope. Although glitchy, he is able to maneuver his way to Karl’s contact.

_ hey are u at work?  _

He sends the message, staring at the rhythmic sequence of bubbles that signal the other is typing. 

_ yeah what’s up :D  _ Karl responds.

George types out a reply.  _ skipping today, gonna join u _

He feels a buzz that indicates Karl’s response as he slides his phone back into his pocket and gets back on his bike, admitting defeat to a shit day. 

George pulls open the door as a small bell rings above him and a gust of warmth envelops him. He ducks down into the camera shop, the smell of hydroquinone from the darkroom swirling around his head. The narrow aisles are stacked with boxes and parts, film rolls and camera straps. His eyes trace over various brands and products as if he knows a single thing about any camera that isn’t his own iPhone lens.

In George’s eyes, Karl was practically born here. Some could call him a film major recluse, sure, but this title falls short when describing the extent to which he dedicates his life to cameras. Karl knows his way around lenses and apertures, a stark contrast from George’s reliance on auto focus. He spends hours in the dingy underground photo store, tinkering away at old parts and talking to dedicated strangers. 

A distant melody plays overhead and hushed whispers from considerate customers fill the store in a soft drone. Almost entranced by the white noise of the cramped space, the daze is interrupted.

“George!”

Several patrons look up. Karl is seated comfortably on a stool behind the register, grinning directly at him. George returns a small smile as he makes his way to the back of the store, taking in the building that the other considers to be sacred. He’s only been here a few times, bringing Karl takeout when he gets caught up scanning negatives after hours or picking him up on the way to a kickback, but he can see why he likes it so much. The space, although quaint, is stacked with vintage cameras and prints—and Karl looks right at home in the midst of it.

Karl looks at him up and down as he draws near, beaming. “Jesus, you look terrible.”

“Nice to see you too.” George’s smile turns into a playful frown. He shifts the weight of his body from one foot to the other, suddenly hyper-aware of his own appearance. His socks don’t even match, he realizes.

“Sorry.” Karl giggles. “I like to take a jab at your pretty privilege sometimes.” His visual focus returns to a customer waiting to be rung up and he punches numbers into the transaction keys on his shitty cash register. 

George scoffs. Although many people have called him  _ pretty,  _ he’s never really seen it for himself. Maybe he’s spent too long running his finger down the not quite straight bridge of his nose, or overanalyzing the asymmetrical slant of his eyes. “Well I didn’t exactly have time to look in the mirror this morning.” He runs a hand through his hair, flattening any stray strands. “Hey thanks for waking me up by the way, you guys are killer roommates.” 

Karl raises his hands in defense. “I swear we knocked, you probably have hearing problems.” He pats an empty stool next to him and George takes him up on the offer of a seat, plopping down comfortably.

“Well my  _ hearing problems  _ woke me up at nine.” George’s eyes scan over the assortment of trinkets behind the register. He grabs a rubik’s cube and begins twisting and pulling, although unsure how to solve it. 

“Have a nice day!” Karl expresses towards the exiting shopper before turning back to face George and his multicolored rubik’s cube. “Aren’t you colorblind?” He says after a beat of silence.

“Yep.”

Karl shakes his head, clearly moving past it. “So. You’re skipping.”

George doesn’t look up from his sculptural puzzle. “Shit day. Forgot to write my paper. Woke up late. Broke my phone.” George curtly returns. “Yes, I am skipping.”

The other hums thoughtfully. “You’re like, experiencing a divine intervention.”

George looks at him questionably, wondering how his dominoes of misfortune have any divinity attached to them at all. “Intervention, maybe. But it doesn’t seem too divine to me.”

“Okay but like, all of those things happened so that you would give in and come here and hang with me.” Karl places his hands underneath his chin and smiles brightly. 

George smiles at his puzzle. “Sure Karl,” he says, giving the other a hard time. Deep down, he knows there is a bit of truth embedded in Karl’s statement. George, although not a strong believer of signs, finds himself able to recognize that the series of early morning misfortunes led him to warm and much needed company. 

“So are you gonna sit there doing puzzles you can’t physically solve or are you gonna help me restock? We got a Canon shipment today.”

In the now rather empty store, Karl is able to leave the register unattended and the two make their way over to a stack of boxes. George picks one up, examining the model number and finding its spot amongst a crowded bottom shelf. He falls into a rhythm—picking up a box, turning it upside down, and placing it in its respective location. He enjoys the mindlessness of the task, and his hands are able to do the work while his mind wanders through miscellaneous conversation topics. 

“Karl, how do boomerangs work?”

The two are seated on the carpeted floor, reaching for the back of the shelves and reorganizing the boxes. “I’ve never seen a boomerang in my life, George, I think they’re a myth.” Karl giggles. 

“What if,” George stands to grab another few boxes, “the boomerang you get back is not your own but from someone else who threw  _ their _ own boomerang at the same time  _ you _ did.” 

Karl laughs. “Like a boomerang penpal. Boomerang.” Karl spells the word out on his tongue, as if it tastes funny. “I don’t even think the word boomerang is real. B-o-o-m-e-r-a-n-g.”

This time, it’s George that laughs. “B-o-o-m-e-r-a-n-g. Oh my god. We’ve said it so much that it doesn’t make sense anymore. Boomerang.” 

George and Karl meet each other’s eyes, sputtering out the word _boomerang_ unanimously before bursting into a loud howl that fills the store. George collapses over himself, cackling at the nonsense of the english language. 

“What’s this about a boomerang?”

George immediately recognizes that voice, although he could've sworn he didn't hear anyone enter the store. Any remaining laughter dies in his throat and he turns around reluctantly.

Dream stands at the end of the aisle, towering over their piles of camera boxes—making the store feel awfully small. George shifts under the intense scrutiny of his stare, swallowed whole by his gaze. “It was uh. It was just a dumb joke.” He clears his throat. “Not that I have to explain myself to you.”

Some divine fucking intervention this turned out to be.

Dream traces his hand over the edge of a shelf as he dawdles down the aisle, inhaling sharply with a smile. “Ouch, George.”

George flinches at the sound of his own name on Dream’s tongue. It sounds vile, and he wishes it were anywhere but between his teeth. As Dream draws near, George’s gaze shifts down to his collar and he catches sight of a scar at the base of his throat. He hadn’t noticed it before. He wonders how much skin the scar sacrileges—how much Dream deserved its brutality. 

_ Probably a lot _ , he thinks, as his eyes trail down to the contents of Dream’s hands. He scoffs at the sight of the closed rolls of film. “What, you’re gonna film one of your sex tapes on 35mm?"

Dream steps closer so that their exchange is nothing but a harsh whisper. He looks down at George dangerously, twisting his mouth into a sick grin.

“Only if you’re my model.”

_ Oh. _

It clicks. Dream sees the other night as a challenge. Dream sees  _ George  _ as a challenge. 

George suppresses the heat breaching the surface of his cheeks as much as he can, narrowing his eyes. “You’re an idiot if you think I’m gonna be your next pursuit.”

And as if they weren’t close enough, Dream steps even closer so that they share the same breath, looking down on George with a darkness that could be lit aflame by one match. George studies the features he's always been to far away to see. Another scar decorates the bridge of Dream's nose, he notes, as he allows his gaze to drift down to his lips—seemingly punctured with bite marks. He chooses not to waste time guessing whether or not they're self inflicted. 

“You’re an idiot if you think it’s your own choice, Georgie.”

George falters. Dream's voice crawls underneath his skin and locks hold.

Dream breaks eye contact with a smirk and looks past him, towards the back of the store where Karl is putting boxes away, presumably out of earshot. “I think I’m ready to check out now.” 

Karl nods. 

Dream shoots a plastic smile in that direction and pushes past George. Heat lingers on George's skin in the spot where they had come into contact, embers turning to ash a little too slowly for his liking. He trails behind the other two, picking his rubik’s cube back up from its dormancy on the counter.

“Nick’s throwing a kickback on Friday. You should come.”

George chooses not to respond. He can feel Dream’s eyes rake over his small frame and he hones in on his colored puzzle, heavily analyzing the ridges and mechanics in an attempt to ignore his presence. Dream stares at him for a few more moments, waiting for a reaction, before grabbing his items and turning towards the door.

The bell rings overhead and George finally exhales. 

"He didn't even leave me a tip." Karl says under his breath.

George scoffs. "You say that like you're surprised."

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> here we are again! 
> 
> once again i am so sorry for the late update this chapter was so hard to write for literally no reason
> 
> comments and critiques are always welcome! 
> 
> songs!
> 
> soko - hurt me with your ego  
> nina simone - i put a spell on you  
> the police - don't stand so close to me
> 
> <3


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> here we go!

“Oh, you’re so gonna regret saying that.” 

Nadia looks over at George expectantly, a smirk playing at her lips. “George. You can’t cook for shit. There. I’ve said it twice.”

George narrows his eyes, ready to retort, when the sliver of remaining golden light flickers by his face before disappearing behind the sill of a window in their living room. The sun moves faster when it sets, slipping away just as fast as it rose early in the morning. George grasps hold of it, leaning slightly to his left in an attempt to capture the remaining warmth. As soon as it fades, he huffs—now reliant on internal heat and his layers of clothing. 

“Hello? Earth to George?”

George shakes his head, snapping out of his persistent dire for warmth. “It’s cold as fuck.”

Nadia stares at him, jaded. 

He unwraps his arms from his legs and stretches, filling up his end of their couch. George runs his hands across the ribbed texture of the upholstery, craving to be wrapped in the same fuzziness. “Listen, okay. I’m going to run to my room and put on my fuzzy socks. _Then_ I’m going to make the meanest motherfucking pasta dish you’ve ever laid your taste buds on.”

Without waiting for a response, he springs up off the couch and into the hallway, opening the door to his room. The plastic stars still remain to be his only light source, which he finds to be troubling as he moves his hand through his sock drawer. He pulls the socks over his feet and grabs an extra jumper before heading back out. 

George smiles to himself when he emerges, observing Nadia reach for a pan in the kitchen. The low light of the room provides a warm embrace around the two of them, alone in the apartment. He slides his slippery socks across the kitchen tiles, pulling himself right up to Nadia’s side. He grabs the cutting board from beside the toaster oven and a knife, pulling out the cilantro and dicing slowly. This is George’s favorite time of the week. He and Nadia often pass it in silence—a warm quiet that allows him to reflect and decompress from the past few days. They spend Friday evenings like this one making meals that are far too advanced for the average uni student. Of course, George only does the light work. Except for tonight. 

“So, _George_ —culinary master, Great British Baking Show extraordinaire, what do you have in store for us tonight exactly?” Nadia looks up from her own busywork on the counter and nudges him slightly. 

“I was _thinking,”_ George starts, “We do a little bit of this, a little bit of that,” he points to miscellaneous vegetables and condiments spread around the kitchen, “and see where it takes us.”

Nadia narrows her eyes. “So what _I’m_ hearing is that you would like to wing it.”

George tilts his head, squinting at the ceiling knowingly. “I wouldn’t say _wing,_ more like an ad-lib of sorts.”

Nadia snorts.

“We’ll be the culinary Kanye.” 

George can feel Nadia shaking her head in dismay. They go back to their rhythmic cutting of vegetables, letting the silence fill the space up once again. He moves to turn on the burner, placing a pot of water over the flame. Small pockets of air fill the water and George watches them rise to the surface before bursting. The heat meets his cheeks to create a layer of perspiration, and he faces directly into it just as he used to do when he was younger—when he still needed a stool to reach the utensil drawer. 

A small notification is heard over the boiling water, and George turns to grab the box of pasta. The cool glow of Nadia’s phone infiltrates the warmly lit room and she stares blankly. Suddenly the comfortable silence of the kitchen is a lot more strained.

“Dream texted me.”

At that, George turns from his pasta to look at her in confusion. “He did what?”

Nadia shakes her head, scrolling through her messages. A small smile forms on her face. “Yeah, he just invited me to a party tonight. He said he’s sorry for the way he treated me.” 

George does a double take. _The fucking kickback._ Anger fills his lower abdomen, rising into his throat. “Nadia, he can’t just do that.”

_He can’t just fucking do that._

Nadia sets her knife down on her cutting board and wipes her hands on her thighs. “I have to go, George. He wants me there.”

“But what about dinner tonight?” 

His roommate shakes her head. “I’m going.”

George cringes. He knows that Dream doesn’t give a fuck about Nadia’s attendance. All Nadia is to him is an anchor to George. Annoyance at the man behind the texts sparks his nerves, lighting them on fire as they slowly burn inwards. Maybe Dream is smarter than what he lets on, because there is no way in hell George is letting Nadia go to that place without him. 

He turns the stovetop off and puts the unopened box of pasta back on the counter. “Okay. Then I’m going with you.” 

Nadia squeals in excitement before dashing into the hallway. George trails back into his room, reluctantly throwing on a dark sweater and sneakers over his fuzzy socks in hopes that he can pass by unnoticed. He looks up at his own stars, searching for movement to throw a wish upon. He’s not superstitious, he swears. But he needs any ounce of luck.

The cab ride is short, the music is loud, and Nadia’s red lips look out of place among her soft features. 

The moment they walk through the front door, George knows this is not just a kickback. The walls are folding in on themselves, pushing bodies toward each other—a boiling pot similar to that of which he was tending to earlier in the evening. Though this one is much more erratic. Nadia loosens from his tight grip around her arm and their fingers part as she disappears into the sea of pumping people. George frantically searches for her head, pushing through the crowd. He calls after her but his voice disappears into the rumble of the bass and he can’t even hear himself.

Fuck. This was a mistake.

He brings his arms into his chest and pushes through to the edge of the crowd, where he finally takes his first breath. To his dismay, it’s not very fresh. The crowded room is littered with empty cups and bottles and people trail in and out of a back hallway, stumbling across each other. Hookups clutter the sidelines, pressing against window sills and table tops. He shudders.

“GEORGIE!” 

George looks up to see Alex emerging from the sea of noisy people with his arms wide open, stumbling over for a sweaty embrace. They wrap around each other and George allows a smile to creep onto his face, grateful that he can recognize someone within this mess of moving bodies. “I thought you guys were going to the game tonight?” George yells over the music. 

“Game was cut short so we’re here now.” Alex loudly gestures towards the heavy atmosphere of the room. “We don’t even know who’s fucking place this is!” 

George laughs, knowing exactly who’s place this is. “Big Q, have you seen Nadia?” 

Alex shakes his head and George curses, running a hand through his hair. He’s lost the one person he came here to protect. The song switches and the bass gets louder, vibrating through his bones. 

“Hey man, you seem tense as hell.” Alex looks directly at him before taking a blunt out from behind his ear and wiggling it in front of his face. “Come on.” 

Before George can respond, he feels himself being tugged back through the crowd of people, pushed and pulled on by numerous jostling bodies. They emerge from the suffocation of dancers and proceed through a cramped kitchen. Alex pulls him through an open window and he steps out onto a fire escape, where a rush of cool air hits him and his preoccupation with Nadia suddenly dissipates into the night. George is greeted by a chorus of _hello’s_ sung by a tight group of people on the platform, a cloud of smoke lingering overhead. He eyes Karl, who is up a rung on the ladder, and smiles gratefully. 

George is glad to be out of that sweaty hellhole. 

The blunt is lit, glowing orange against the dark faces of these strangers. It gets passed around and George sinks into his high—melting into the shoulder of an interloper right next to the window. The harsh lines of his temperament slowly ease into syrup and he’s forgotten his purpose for attending this function.

Conversations about cryptocurrency and classical guitar fly over his head and he loses any sense of time, the sky as pitch black as ever. 

When they finally re-emerge into the heat of the kitchen, the trembling baseline is noticeably heavier. George pushes through the tangle of people, headed for the center of the dance floor, when he notices someone has already taken that spot. 

That _someone_ has Nadia’s arms wrapped around his neck. 

That _someone_ has his own hands wound tightly around her waist, pulling her dangerously close. 

George stares, stuck at a standstill in the midst of the buzzing bodies around him. He watches as Dream connects his lips with Nadia’s, hands tracing underneath the hem of her shirt, and nausea overtakes him. He’d abandoned his reason for coming to this fucking party and now he’s paying the price. 

As if on cue, Dream’s eyes fly open and find George’s gaze, challenging it with fiery intention as he leaves love bites along Nadia’s jaw. 

George can’t move. 

Dream’s stare pierces his chest and it _hurts._ It tears him undone and he’s left standing on the dance floor, glued to the spot beneath his feet. Dream runs a hand through his long hair as he slowly grinds into the girl, but his eyes never abandon George. Heat pools at the bottom of George’s stomach and he shoves it away with brutal force.

Suddenly, Dream drops Nadia’s arms from around his neck and parts through the tangle of people towards George with a hunger in his eyes. George quickly forces his feet to move and he backs up, bumping into a wall behind him.

Dream steps closer, bridging together the negative space.

“You came.”

George looks behind him for Nadia, but she’s disappeared behind the curtain of people. His breath hitches. “Whatever game you’re playing needs to stop, Dream.” 

Dream lets out a low chuckle. “Nadia’s sweet, isn’t she.”

Anger wells in the pit of George’s stomach and he spits his words out harshly. “You’re so fucking manipulative. Just leave her the fuck alone.”

“George.” Dream leans, trapping him between an arm and the wall he’s pushed up against. It comes out as a whisper, and George can feel his own name linger in the air between them. He holds his breath, afraid that if he exhales, the barrier he’s built up will come crashing down.

“Yes?” It’s meant to come out sharply, but George barely chokes it out.

Dream smiles over him. “I’ll leave her alone if you do me a favor.”

There’s a pause, and the music swells. 

“Go on a date with me, Georgie.” Dream coos, sickeningly sweet. “Go on a date with me, and I’ll leave her alone.”

George swallows. “You are so fucking horrible.” 

Without another word, he pushes past Dream and heads back into the swarm of moving people—heart racing. The room closes in on him and he grasps at different bodies until he recognizes the back of Nadia's shirt, recalling Dream's hands reaching underneath the expanse of fabric. George gently nudges her shoulder. "The party's ending," he lies. "We should head out." 

The stifling quiet of the cab ride home stretches time out, kneading them into a strange limbo—Nadia's questions of Dream's whereabouts going unanswered. 

It gets cut off by a singular piercing ring. 

“Hello?” 

Nadia holds her phone up to her ear and it glows bright against her smeared red lips—a tattoo of what she had taken part in at the party. Mumbling from the other line filters through the car and she giggles.

“Yeah…yeah I had a good time too…” 

More mumbling comes through and she looks at George with a flash of confusion.

“Uh…okay.” Nadia holds out her phone towards George with a questioning tone in her voice. “He wants to talk to you?”

_Shit._

George carefully takes the phone and looks at the caller ID, his heart beating in his throat. He puts the device up to his ear and waits.

“George.” 

The voice crackles sharply through the phone’s speakers, and he makes it a point to turn down the volume so that the call is out of ear shot. 

George clears his throat. “Why are you reaching me, Dream?”

He looks over at his roommate and finds a pleading gaze staring right back at him—a shred of lovesick hopefulness still in her eyes. A brick load of guilt topples over him.

“You shouldn't have just left like that, Georgie.” Malice emits through the receiving end. “Nadia's only a phone call away.”

The cab feels cold and George’s chest tightens as he moves his eyes from Nadia down to the floor. He stays silent. 

“My offer still stands. Go on a date with me and I leave her alone.” Dream's voice drips with conceit. 

_You are such a dick,_ he wants to say. _You are using her for a game that no one else wants to be a part of. Stop torturing her._

_Stop torturing me._

But he doesn’t say this. He can’t. The line stays silent. 

George doesn’t know how much more of Nadia's scrutinizing stare he can take. He leans his head against the vibrating car window and looks out at the street lamps, the strangers, the nonexistent night life—anywhere but his roommate’s face. No matter his decision, it’s betrayal. But he would rather betray his own morals than to allow Dream to continue instigating the lovesick look in Nadia's eyes.

_It's just one date._

_One date to protect his friend._

He caves.

“Fine, whatever. I'm giving the phone back now.”

George hands the phone over to his confused roommate, listening to the dead end receiver sing its dying remarks as his chest tightens. 

  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi!
> 
> feedback etc is always appreciated!!! u guys are so cool
> 
> songs  
> ted lucas - it is so nice to get stoned  
> cherub - doses and mimosas  
> MGMT - when you die
> 
> teehee


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